Fry turned back to the photograph of the Mullen family. But it wasn’t Lindsay Mullen and the two boys she was looking at now. They were dead, and past saving. Her focus had shifted.
She held the print up to the light from the window, trying to bring out the depth of colour that suddenly seemed so important. She was studying Brian Mullen and the carefully wrapped bundle in his arms. Luanne Mullen, aged about twelve months at the time the photo was taken. It was unusual, perhaps, for a child of that age to be held by the father in a family group. She might have expected Lindsay to be the one showing off the baby, with the father proudly flanked by his two sons. But that wasn’t the way the Mullens had posed.
That detail might have been what drew Fry’s attention. It was like a tiny fly twitching its wings in the ointment, a flaw in the normal expectations. Insignificant in itself, but still …
As she stared at the child’s face, Fry suddenly realized how extraordinarily beautiful Luanne Mullen was. She wasn’t the type to fall into a gooey heap every time she saw some unprepossessing infant with jowls like Winston Churchill. Not at all. Most babies were ugly as sin, except to the poor benighted parents, who couldn’t see the reality in front of them because their eyes were glued shut with bewilderment and exhaustion. But not Luanne. Churchill had never looked like this. In fact, Luanne Mullen was the most beautiful child she’d ever seen.
Then Fry was struck by the contrast between Luanne and her father. Not that Brian was repulsive, exactly, but he was fair-haired, angular and pale. Luanne, on the other hand, had black hair — so black that it was startling in a child of her age. Her eyes were dark, too, like little pools of black ink.
And there was another thing — the child’s skin was surely several shades more Mediterranean than Brian’s English pallor. So what about the mother? Well, there she was — blonde hair, showing light brown at the roots. And green eyes.
Of course, it was perfectly possible that the couple had produced a child who looked like that. English people weren’t exactly pure-bred Anglo-Saxons, after all. They were mongrels to a man, a mixture of Celts and Vikings, Saxons and Normans, and more exotic arrivals. In the North West of England, almost everyone had an Irish migrant or two lurking in their family tree. This child’s conception might simply have thrown up the genes of some Gaelic or Huguenot ancestor. Or her looks could result from a more recent influence — a Jewish refugee grandfather, or a Middle Eastern immigrant.
Yes, all of those things were possible. But none of them was the first thought that sprang to Fry’s mind when she looked at Luanne Mullen.
29
When Fry looked down at the A6 that afternoon, she didn’t know what to expect. A stagecoach with four grey horses, or two of them drawing a landau. Maybe Dick Turpin on Black Bess. Who knew what went on in this area?
She passed the Lowthers’ car standing on the drive. A white Rover, nice and clean. A couple of years old, though, so it was probably time Mr Lowther had a new one.
Once she was sitting in the Lowthers’ conservatory, Fry lifted the photograph of Brian and Lindsay and their three children off the corner table. No pussyfooting around any more. Not at this point.
‘Luanne is a very attractive child, Mrs Lowther,’ she said.
‘Yes, isn’t she?’
‘She doesn’t look a bit like either of her parents, though. Her colouring is very dark.’
‘It happens. There’s no accounting for genes.’
‘I know what you mean,’ said Fry. ‘But you can account for the genes in this case, can’t you? Luanne is definitely your daughter’s child?’
Henry Lowther had remained impassive so far, trying to smile politely, but not quite managing it. Mrs Lowther fidgeted, reluctant to answer. But Fry was prepared to wait.
‘No, she’s adopted,’ said Mrs Lowther at last.
‘Ah, finally,’ said Fry. ‘And this adoption was how you came to know Rose Shepherd, am I right?’
‘Yes, it’s true.’
‘And the meeting in Matlock Bath on Saturday? Whose idea was that?’
The Lowthers looked at each other. ‘I suppose I suggested it to Lindsay,’ said Henry. ‘It was just a casual remark, really. “It would be nice to see Rose Shepherd again and say thank you, wouldn’t it?” Something like that. That was weeks ago. And Lindsay didn’t say anything at the time. But the idea must have taken root in her mind, because a few days later she spoke about organizing a meeting as if it was already a fait accompli.’
Mr Lowther’s self-conscious use of the French phrase made Fry think of Georgi Kotsev’s ciao and merci. But then, Georgi rightly took pride in his command of languages. How many could Henry Lowther hold a conversation in? Until now, he hadn’t even made a good fist of English. Not if you defined conversation as an exchange of information.
‘You’re going to have to be more forthcoming with us, sir.’
Lowther got up from his chair and moved restlessly around the conservatory. He was a big man — much too heavy round the waist, of course, but intimidating when he stood over you like that.
‘You have to realize that they went through a difficult experience together,’ he said. ‘The adoption process in Bulgaria wasn’t easy. Not at all what we expected. It was quite a shock to arrive at that orphanage. We had never seen anything like it.’
‘Tell us how it came about.’
‘I have some business contacts in Bulgaria,’ said Lowther. ‘They came over here a few years ago to talk about forming trade links, possibly even a joint venture. They were very impressed with our set-up, and we made sure they had a good time while they were here, of course. They invited me over to Bulgaria for a little jaunt in return for our hospitality.’
‘And did they show you a good time?’
‘Oh, there was some vodka, and a lot of red wine. We explored the country a little.’
‘Where did you go? Pleven?’
Lowther hesitated slightly. ‘Dounav.’
‘Vodka and red wine? Didn’t you drink any rakia?’
‘I tried it, but I’m not too fond of brandy.’
‘And Rose Shepherd?’
‘I was put in touch with her through one of my business contacts. He knew someone who’d used her services previously. The advantages of networking, you see. You can get hold of pretty much anything if you know the right people.’
‘Was it you who suggested the adoption to your daughter?’
‘I mentioned it as an option.’
‘I see.’
‘It worked quite well, in the end,’ said Mr Lowther defensively. ‘We were desperate for a girl — or at least, Lindsay was. But after Liam’s birth, the doctors told Lindsay and Brian they couldn’t have any more children. Adoption is such a chancy process in this country, and it takes so long. In any case, you can’t get babies to adopt here any more. And Lindsay didn’t want a child the same age as the boys. We’d read about orphanages in Eastern Europe where all these babies needed parents. Once Lindsay heard about that — well, you can imagine what she was like.’
‘Not really, I’m afraid.’
‘Well, it was all we could do to stop her catching the next flight to Romania. We knew there wouldn’t be any peace until she’d gone to look for herself. But we read up on it a bit — on the internet, you know. And we found that Bulgaria was the place to go these days. So that’s where we went. It seemed as simple as that, at first.’
‘You keep saying “we”.’
‘I couldn’t let Lindsay go out there on her own.’
‘No, but it might seem more natural for her husband to have gone with her.’
Lowther paced the length of the room. ‘It’s difficult for Brian. He has his job, and he can’t just take time off whenever he wants to. But I can organize my time however I like. I’ve got people I can delegate to. And my daughter came before my business, anyway. I was ready and willing to go to Bulgaria with her.’
‘And Rose Shepherd helped you arrange an adoption?’
‘Sh
e worked with the people at the orphanage.’
‘Oh, of course. The orphanage.’
He stopped pacing and stared out of the window at the traffic. His shoulders seemed to sag as he was forced to bring back the memories.
‘It was in a small town about thirty miles from Pleven. When we found the place, it was a rundown building with peeling paint, full of chipped wooden cots and thin mattresses. It was awful. Lindsay nearly cried when she saw outside. The thing I remember most is the smell of bleach — it was the first thing that hit us when we went in. But it got worse after that. We could see that the children all slept in cots, regardless of their age. And some of them looked to be more than four years old. We discovered that they were expected to share clothes, and even toothbrushes. Food seemed to be in short supply, too. It was so depressing. Personally, I would have turned round and come home immediately. But then there was Zlatka …’
‘Sorry? Did you say Zlatka?’
‘Lindsay and Brian decided to call her Luanne, but her Bulgarian name was Zlatka Shishkov. She was so small and frail, with big eyes and dark, wispy hair. No one could have resisted her.’
‘And that was the child the orphanage offered you?’
‘Not at first. There was another child they wanted us to take. A girl who was already past her third birthday then, yet she spoke no more than a few words of what the people at the orphanage called “baby Bulgarian”. She still wore nappies, too. Her records said that she’d been neglected by her mother for at least the first year of her life, and she had limited interaction with adults. So she didn’t develop all the normal emotional responses or social skills, you see. When anyone reached out to touch her, she flinched away. She was happy to have visitors, but only because it meant being out of her cot for a while. She had no idea who these strange people were that had come to see her.’
‘It was you and your daughter who visited the orphanage?’
‘Yes. When we went there, I was told that the children might not react to me well. Most Bulgarian orphanage workers are female, so the children had limited experience with men. And, of course, Zlatka had never known her father.’
‘Go on.’
‘Well, the first time we saw Zlatka, we were in the director’s office, the only freshly painted room in the orphanage. A carer brought her in and put her down on a rug for us to look at her. Lindsay said afterwards that she instantly felt a sort of gaping emptiness in her stomach filling up with love. She said in that moment, she became Zlatka’s mother.’
Fry said nothing. She didn’t personally understand the urges being described.
‘I never questioned her about that,’ said Lowther, interpreting her sceptical expression. ‘There are some things we can’t understand about each other, we just have to take them on faith. That instinct was something I could never feel myself. But I didn’t doubt it in Lindsay. It was the most powerful emotion I’d ever seen in her. Stronger than when she had either of the boys. It doesn’t make sense, does it? But that was the way it was.’
He looked questioningly at his wife, who nodded slowly but didn’t speak.
‘There were some really bad times after that first occasion, you know,’ he said. ‘But Lindsay said she could always bring back the feeling of that moment she saw Zlatka. She said it was sometimes the only thing that stopped her from giving up.’
‘What do you mean by bad times, sir?’
Lowther didn’t seem to hear her, and she had to ask the question again. He stirred from the window, staring at her vaguely.
‘Oh, there were so many difficulties. Bulgarian adoptions require court approval — a notoriously slow process. It took months even to set a date for a hearing, and we were told that many adoptions required more than one hearing. Miss Shepherd was a great help, giving us advice all along the line, helping us to understand the rules, explaining all the bureaucracy. But at the first hearing, the judge refused our application. He said there were minor problems in the paperwork. We had to hire a Bulgarian attorney to correct the errors, then the court had to schedule another date. The process seemed to go on for ever. I remember there was a sort of prosecuting attorney, who was employed to point out legal problems. He was a tall man with black hair and broad shoulders, and he wore a bright red robe. We started to refer to him as Satan.’
‘All right. But this must have been, what — twelve months ago?’
‘Yes, that’s right. Luanne was six months old when we brought her out of Bulgaria.’
‘She’s been slow to develop in a lot of ways,’ said Mrs Lowther. ‘But that’s because of her background. When we got her, she could just about grasp a rattle, and her head still flopped about when we sat her up. She had no idea how to feed herself.’
‘The boys were much more advanced than that, so it was a bit of a shock for Lindsay,’ added her husband.
Mrs Lowther smiled sadly. ‘Luanne’s eighteen months old now, and she babbles to herself all the time, but she has difficulty forming words, even “mummy” and “daddy”. She tends to repeat the last word of anything that people say to her. She’s very restless physically, isn’t she, Henry?’
‘She certainly is. And she can be very emotional, too — she laughs and cries almost at the same time.’
‘And she’s still having trouble sleeping through the night, I believe, sir?’ said Fry.
Lowther hesitated. ‘Oh?’
‘Your son-in-law said that’s why Luanne was staying here on the night of the fire, to give Lindsay a bit of respite.’
‘Oh, that’s right,’ said Lowther. ‘Luanne is still suffering from separation anxiety. Lindsay and Brian should have learned how to let her cry before now, but they couldn’t. It’s always a difficult thing to do, of course. As a parent, you can’t ignore your child when it’s calling for you.’
Fry wasn’t impressed. Henry Lowther didn’t look like a man who’d get up in the middle of the night to attend to a crying baby, but she might be misjudging him.
‘So explain to me again how you came to meet with Rose Shepherd in Matlock Bath last weekend.’
‘Oh, that was a mistake. I ought to have known it was a mistake from the start. But Lindsay seized on the idea so eagerly, you see. She wanted to say thank you to Miss Shepherd for helping her to get Luanne. I told Lindsay that she should be thankful for what she had and put all the stuff in Bulgaria behind her. But it became almost an obsession with her. You know what women can be like. Well, that was what our daughter was like, anyway. Once she got an idea into her head, it couldn’t be shifted.’
‘So you set up a meeting?’
‘Yes.’
‘You must have had some way of getting in touch with Miss Shepherd, then.’
‘There was an email address. It was one of those free web-based accounts where you don’t have to give any details of your identity to sign up. You only have to provide a name, but you can make that up. Everyone does it.’
‘I see. Well, we’d like that email address, please, sir.’
‘I’ll find it for you. You know, I don’t think she can have checked her email very often. It took her some weeks to reply to my message. In fact, I suspected she wasn’t going to respond at all. I thought she must have changed her email account, or died even. I didn’t know, at the time.’
‘You weren’t aware that Miss Shepherd was living nearby?’
Lowther laughed. ‘No, that was the amazing thing. But she didn’t know Britain very well, so this might have been the first place she thought of. Ironic, isn’t it? I was stunned when she suggested meeting in Matlock Bath. In my own mind, I’d been thinking of a city somewhere, maybe even London. The anonymity of crowds, you know. But apparently she didn’t travel very far once she got into that house at Foxlow.’
‘She told you where she lived, then? Was that information in her email, or did she tell you when you met her in the Riber Tea Rooms?’
‘Neither,’ said Lowther. ‘No, she didn’t give away anything like that. I read about the house in Foxlo
w in the papers, and then saw it on the TV news. As I said, I was stunned. To think Miss Shepherd was only a few miles away from us. Do you think it was deliberate on her part, to move into Derbyshire?’
‘We don’t know. But there are a lot of things we don’t know about Rose Shepherd.’
‘I can’t help you very much, I’m afraid. She didn’t share any information about her private life.’
‘Talking about sharing information — Mr Lowther, why didn’t you come forward and tell us you knew Rose Shepherd when you heard the news about her death?’
‘Why? Good God, don’t you think we’ve been a bit too busy with our own concerns to pay attention to the news? The last four days have been a complete blur.’ Lowther started to go red in the face as he warmed to the subject. ‘Our lives have been turned upside down by the fire, you know. We’ve been backwards and forwards to the hospital and the mortuary, visiting Brian, identifying the bodies of our daughter and our grandchildren, making statements to the police, taking calls from our family and friends, fending off the press, doing our best to look after Brian and Luanne. Not to mention John. My wife has been exhausted with it all. She’s cried herself to sleep every night. And you think we’ve just been sitting around watching TV?’
‘All right.’
Fry waited for him to calm down. Perhaps she’d been a bit unreasonable. But after the experience with Darren Turnbull, this silence about Rose Shepherd on the part of the public was starting to feel like a conspiracy.
‘Besides,’ said Lowther, ‘nothing happened at our meeting. Nothing of any significance.’
‘You just made small talk?’
‘It was all a bit awkward, really. Once we’d said what we’d gone to say, there was nothing else to talk about. After a while, Miss Shepherd gave Lindsay a gift for Luanne, then she left. She seemed quite nervous, glad to get away.’
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